NEW DS9 Triage 0/5 [R] (B&Nog, B/Ez, J/J)
Title: Triage
Author: Paula Stiles (thesnowleopard@hotmail.com)
Webpage:
http://www.geocities.com/RainForest/Andes/3071/arch.html
Series: DS9
Part: NEW 1/1
Rating: [R]
Codes: B&Nog, B&m, B/Ez, J/J
Summary: Following the evacuation of the survivors from
the siege at AR-558, Bashir and Nog end up on a crowded
hospital ship. Set early in Season Seven, between 'The
Siege of AR-558' and 'It's Only a Paper Moon.'
Disclaimer: It ain't me, babe, but Paramount who owns the
characters and the Trek universe. RCA Records appears to
own the rights to Jefferson Airplane's song "White
Rabbit". Lewis Carrol's "Alice in Wonderland" and
"Through the Looking Glass" don't belong to me, either. I
also use Eric Bogle's "The Band Played Waltzing Matilda",
which belongs to Larrikin Music, Ltd. Oh, and while I'm
at it, I confess to misusing "The Charge of the Light
Brigade", as well as Emerson's and Shaw's quotes (see
below). But since Berman and Co. did that first, I don't
feel especially bad about it. I'm not making any money
off of this story, but I am having fun. As far as I know,
that's not yet illegal.
Note: Anybody ever wonder how Bashir survived getting
shot point-blank by a Jem'Hadar during 'The Siege of AR-
558' when Kellin didn't? I sure did. If Bashir had been a
redshirt, he would have died on that battlefield. This is
my take on how he survived.
Warning: This is rated R for description of trauma,
multiple character deaths, foul language, drug-fueled
fantasies, gallows humour, a rather gruesome dream and
general war angst.
TRIAGE
"A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is
brave five minutes longer."
R.W. Emerson
"You cannot be a hero without being a coward."
George Bernard Shaw
I'm busy taking out Jem'Hadar. Automatically, I keep
a tally in my head. It's much more than anybody else's. I
don't have time to feel sick about that, or be scared.
We've been overrun. I have to stem the tide, give the
others a chance to stop the Jem'Hadar already in our
compound.
Vic's song ended just before the attack, but I still
hear music in my head. In her last message to me, my
mother sung me a lullaby that I used to love when I was
four. She also sent me the complete works of Lewis
Carroll. Her voice soothes me as I kill and kill and
kill.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a Jem'Hadar aiming
at me. I turn, trying to face my attacker, but you cannot
swing a phaser rifle round that quickly. My knuckles,
shoulder, neck, and side light up like fireworks on Guy
Fawkes Day, even as the Jem'Hadar is knocked to one side
by a phaser blast. I convulse, losing my grip on my rifle
and spinning to the ground. Wedged into this crevasse,
I'd been impossible to hit from the front. I'd hoped they
wouldn't notice my accuracy and try to take me from
behind. They noticed.
Twitchy Vargas, the security bloke, goes down with a
knife in his back, his killer already dying on the
ground.
"Kellin? KELLIN?!"
I hear Ezri's shout of anguish. Kellin, the engineer
with whom she's been rigging booby-traps against the
Jem'Hadar for days, blocks a shot meant for her. I want
to go to her, but I don't dare even to look. I have to
get up, keep shooting. Instead, I grey out.
I wake again to AR-558 a few seconds later (what
mortal sin did I commit to deserve this?). Kellin is
down. Vargas is down. Dead-eyed Reese has his knife out.
Ezri...I don't see her, can't think about her right now.
So few of us left. I roll over, fumble at my rifle, and
crawl back up to start shooting again. The ache in my
side makes it hard to draw a breath. If I'd been hit on
the left side, I think I'd be dead already. The Jem'Hadar
accomplished something, at least. I've slowed down--a
lot.
There's a flash of light and a Jem'Hadar falls on
top of me, knocking me back down. I turn my head to see
Captain Sisko clubbed to the ground by another enemy. I
shoot the Jem'Hadar as he aims his rifle at the Captain.
My aim is bad; I have to shoot him twice to finish the
job. There's no one else to do it. Then, I crawl back up
again, to shoot some more incoming enemy. It's harder
than before--how could it get harder?
After a weary, nightmare-long time, the targets dry
up. At first, I don't register it. I slump down on my
rifle, too exhausted to turn around, to see if we've won
or lost. Since I'm still alive, I suppose that means
we've won. I know for certain when I feel a hand on my
left shoulder and Reese says:
"Doc? You still with us?"
"Yes." I lift my head. I turn over stiffly. My right
shoulder isn't functioning well. I can't feel it at all.
"Did we...?"
He nods, his face blank. "Yeah. Yeah, we did. Look,
Doc, most everybody's wounded. Do you think you could,
um...."
All I really want to do is lie down and go to sleep
forever. But as long as there's a war on, it seems that I
still have a job to do.
So, instead, I say, "Of course."
Kellin and Vargas are dead. Ezri seems all right,
but just sits on the ground, Kellin's head in her lap. I
am briefly envious of him. The Captain survived, as well.
The Jem'Hadar knocked him out, but he'll wake up in a few
minutes. Reese wasn't hurt--physically, anyway. Ensign
Nog, who lost his leg in a previous skirmish, remains
stabilised. He slept through the whole battle. I decide
not to disturb him. Killing a Jem'Hadar who made it as
far as my makeshift infirmary has finally stunned Nog's
Uncle Quark into silence. Good. I don't think I could
deal with any more civilian nattering at this point. We
should never have brought him along in the first place.
Nearly everyone else is either wounded, or dead. The
dead would be easier to sort if I could remember which
ones I've looked at already. They all look the same in
the gloom. I wish I could see better. My head aches. The
leftover ozone smell from all the phaser and disruptor
fire makes me thirsty and nauseous. My side and shoulder
have gone numb, and I'm none too sure of my medical
judgment right now. I can only lift my right arm for a
few seconds at a time. I slog on as best I can, though,
running down like an old watchspring.
Captain Sisko kneels down beside me, putting a hand
on my shoulder. I don't notice, at first, because it's my
right shoulder and I still can't feel it. I see he
finally woke up.
"Are you all right?" he says.
I look at him. I think about lying, but I'm too
tired. "No."
"I saw you take a hit."
I nod. "It's gone numb. I'm not sure how serious it
is. Thank you for saving my life."
"You're welcome," he says. "I think you should beam
up to the Veracruz with Nog and the rest of the wounded."
"Really?" What does he want from me now? Haven't I
done enough? "Do you think it's best?"
He doesn't answer for so long that I forget he's
there. Suddenly, he's back at my side with a medtech. I
didn't realise he'd gone. I look at the medtech. When did
the reinforcements come in? I glance down at my patient,
who stares sightlessly up past me. She's dead. She was
dead the last two times I checked her, as well.
I look at Sisko again. Then, I look at the medtech.
No, wait, there are two of them, and they have a
stretcher. Clearly, my observational skills are
nonexistent, today. I crawl over to the stretcher and lie
down on my side. Nobody says a word.
That's how I leave AR-558.
*********
The Veracruz feels much colder than the surface of
the planet did. It stinks of antiseptic and charred meat-
-must be me. I start shivering before we evven leave the
transporter room. A medtech lays a heated blanket over me
and gives me a hypospray shot. She won't tell me what it
is. It doesn't seem to help. Teeth chattering, I slip
into a doze soon after. I wish they would give me some
water.
I hope that they'll put me in a corner with the rest
of the yellows, and let me sleep. Red is for life-
threatening injuries, yellow for non-life-threatening,
green for the uninjured or walking wounded, and black for
the dead, in that order of importance. Triage is so
simple. It's the decisions that are hard.
"Bashir! Lt. Bashir!" I open my eyes. I'm in a
sickbay which is crowded full of stretchers. I'm lying on
my back. Around me, the wounded scream, cry, whimper, and
groan. So much for sleep. A Human nurse looms over me,
his green eyes narrowed with worry. He rakes a bloody
hand through his short hair, brown on brown, then runs a
steriliser over his fingers without looking at them. The
blood disappears. Was it mine?
"Can you hear me?" he says, as he puts an IV in my
arm. The thirst eases, though I'd still like a drink.
"Of course," I reply. He's practically shouting in
my ear, the flat burr of his accent (Welsh, I think) gone
harsh with suppressed tension. He's in combat mode. His
uniform is bloody and rumpled, his face unshaven. He has
what look like permanent bags under his eyes. Obviously,
he's been working double shifts. When I start to roll
over onto my side, he stops me.
"I'm sorry," he says. "You need to stay on your
back."
"But it doesn't hurt," I protest. I see his face go
grim.
"Not yet," he says. "It will, soon. Can you tell me
your name and rank?"
"Lt. Julian Subatoi Bashir, Chief Medical Officer at
Space Station Deep Space Nine in the Bajoran system,
serial number--"
"Okay, that's enough. Can you tell me where you are,
then?"
I open my mouth to answer, before I realise that
I've completely forgotten the name of the ship. "Umm, a
ship? Not the Defiant."
"Nope," he shakes his head. "Not the Defiant. That
must be your ship."
"Of course," I reply faintly. It's not the kind of
thing you're supposed to forget.
"You're on the Veracruz," he explains.
"The Veracruz. Right."
"Can you tell me what time it is?"
I remember this game now. He's trying to establish
how alert I am by asking me who I am, where I am, and
what time and date it is. If I know all three, then I am
orientated times three and I'm all right. The problem is
that, while I've passed number one with flying colours,
I've bolluxed up number two, and I can't remember three
to save my life.
"Bashir!" He's shaking me. I jump.
"It's okay," he says, more quietly. "It's all right.
You had me a little worried when you didn't respond. Do
you remember what I just asked you?"
Now, I'm really concerned, because I can't. "No."
"I asked you what time it was. Can you tell me
that?"
"No." I hear my voice go very small. "I'm sorry. I
was in this battle, you see. And it went on and on...I
suppose I lost track of time."
"That's okay." He plays with my IV for a bit, then
gives me an injection. At first, it doesn't seem to do
anything. Then, the room brightens. Everything sharpens
around me. The fetid, dead-fly smell of drying blood
threatens to smother me. I notice the red flag on the
wall next to my head, and realise that it's much closer
than the yellow flag across the room. The people
surrounding me all look bad. I can't see a single yellow
among them.
Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod. I know what's wrong. I'm
in shock, and I'm decompensating fast. If they don't
stabilise me soon, I'm going to die.
"You put me with the reds!" I try to sit up, but a
wave of nausea knocks me flat. "What the hell are you
trying to do, kill me? You put me with the reds!"
"It's all right. Take it easy." The nurse holds me
down. I'm too weak to struggle for long, so I stop. I
start to cry.
The nurse crouches down next to the gurney, his head
level with mine. "Lt. Bashir, listen to me very
carefully. You've been shot. You're badly wounded, but
you're not going to die; not as long as you keep
fighting. If you were going to die, you'd have done it
immediately, right? The longer you stay awake, the better
your chances are. Do you understand?"
I nod, still sniveling. "Yes," I say. "I
didn't...didn't realise...." If I'd been my own patient,
I'd be dead now.
"Nobody expected you to." He chuckles. "Now, let's
see if we can get you out of this filthy uniform and into
some warm clothes."
I hate this part. I really do. The last time I was
wounded, I got to sleep through this. I staggered into an
underground hospital, dragging a generator behind me, and
promptly fainted from second and third degree blast
burns. By the time I woke up, they'd cleaned me up and
put me to bed.
That was during the Klingon War--the Klingon War,
the Dominion War, the Maquis rebellion. Too many damned
wars, if you ask me. Nobody ever asks people like me.
If I hadn't been so scared about losing Jake in the
Klingon barrage and about the hospital being overrun,
getting wounded would have been almost pleasant. I needed
the break. Losing your commanding officer's only son
behind enemy lines tends to complicate your life, though.
When I saw Jake walk back into the base on his own power,
it was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. I
don't know how I could have faced the Captain if I'd got
Jake killed.
I got a medal for that. I wasn't enthusiastic about
it, but both Siskos insisted. I suppose I'll get one for
this stunt, too. There's a part of me that loves the
attention, but another part wishes I didn't have so many
little gold coins on ribbons to commemorate the more
traumatic events in my adult life.
The nurse gives me a shot of painkiller, "because
it's gonna start hurting sometime soon, so let's take
care of that now, shall we?" I want to know what he's
given me but he refuses to say.
"Look, Bashir," he says, as he rolls me onto my side
and slits my uniform down the back with a laserscapel. "I
know you want to feel as if you're in control, but
running your own treatment is not a good idea right now.
You are just going to have to trust that we are taking
good care of you. Relax. We're a good team, here."
With whatever he's given me, I can't help *but*
relax. I stop blubbering, finally. My arms dangle over
the side of the gurney as the nurse works my charred,
stinking uniform off and gets me kitted up in a hospital
johnny. I never could stand the things, but it's better
than being naked under a blanket. I'm rather less excited
about the urinary catheter, particularly since he's
putting it in right out in the middle of Sickbay, but at
least it's not as confining as a diagnostic shell.
"What's your name?" I say, to distract myself as he
puts in the catheter.
"Sawalha," he replies. "Lt. Sawalha." He gently
turns me onto my back and puts by arms back at my sides.
When I try to clasp my hands over my chest, he firmly
puts them back down on the gurney.
"You know better," he growls, and I have to admit
that I do. If I were to seize, or go into cardiac arrest,
my hands could get in the way. I'm fortunate he doesn't
restrain them as a precaution, but I don't feel
fortunate, just vulnerable. I shudder.
"Don't worry," Sawalha reassures me. "We won't
restrain your hands unless we have to." Then, he covers
me again with the blanket. "How does that feel?" he asks.
"Lovely," I say dreamily. This painkiller he put me
on is amazing, though I could do without the metallic
taste it leaves in my mouth. I halfheartedly try to
identify it, but I'm so stoned that it's a hopeless task.
Then, I remember something. "Sawa...Nurse?"
"Alex." He looms over me, the light above him making
a rainbow halo around his head.
"What?" I blink up at him, completely thrown by his
response.
"'Alex'. It's my first name. Easier than 'Sawalha',
isn't it? Less impersonal than 'Nurse', too. I have a
feeling you're going to need to use it at some point."
One corner of his mouth turns up in weary amusement. "Go
ahead. Try it out. 'Alex'."
"Alex," I say slowly, feeling out the name. "I came
up with--with a shipmate..." I trail off, unable to
remember anything else--like a name.
"Ensign Nog?" he suggests.
Oh, thank God somebody is on the ball around here.
I'm certainly not.
"Nog. Yeah. How is he?"
"Ensign Nog is resting right now," Sawalha intones.
"His condition is stable and we anticipate no problems in
fitting him with a cybernetic prosthesis once we get him
to a hospital. He'll be fine. You did a good job,
Bashir."
"Oh. That's nice. Where...?"
Sawalha points over to the yellow section of Sickbay.
I squint at that corner, but can't focus well enough to
make out Nog in the crowd. Poor Nog. Nobody's making a
fuss over *him*. He should be getting all of this
attention.
"You know that's not the way it works," Sawalha
scolds me. "Besides, you gave him plenty of attention
when you operated on him down on that planet." I must
have spoken out loud without realizing it. I'm going to
have to watch myself. Although, how I'm going to do that,
when I have neither the means nor the inclination to do
it, is an interesting dilemma.
"Can I see him?" I ask.
"We'll bring him over for a visit when you're
feeling better," Sawalha assures me.
Bollocks. I feel fine. I wish everybody would stop
*hovering* over me.
"But I want to see him *now*," I whine. Normally,
I'd wince at my tone.
"Soon. I promise," Sawalha soothes me. "Don't worry.
I'll take care of him for you, okay?" He tucks the
blanket around me as if I were a four-year-old and whisks
off to another patient.
I fall asleep after Sawalha leaves. It's pleasant
to feel like this, in an out-of-control sort of way.
After some nameless time passes, I feel someone crawl up
onto the stretcher beside me, a naked someone. She slips
her hands under my hospital johnny and wraps her arms and
legs around me. For some odd reason, this doesn't bother
my shoulder and side. I try to turn my head to see who it
is.
"Shh," Ezri breathes in my ear. "Relax. It's only
little old me."
Oooh, I *like* these drugs. I don't know how I'm
going to face the real Ezri later on, but right now, I
don't care. I lie there and let this drug-induced phantom
work some very old black magic on me. While she does, she
sings softly to me my mother's lullaby:
"One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small.
"And the ones that mother gives you don't do anything at
all.
"Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall."
As I drift off, I see a white rabbit running ahead
of me along the river. I chase after it in the wet grass.
Just when I think I'm going to catch it, the ground gives
way under my feet and I'm falling, falling....
*********
I open my eyes to see a dark-haired Human staring at
me from a biobed. A diagnostics shell covers his abdomen.
His expression is cheery and his black eyes vague.
"Great stuff, eh?" he says. "Who'd you dream about?"
"What?" I'm in a biobed, too. I hear the thready
beep of my pulse from the panel above my head. They must
have given me another shot. If anything, I feel even more
out of it than before.
"Nechayev," he lowers his voice, confiding in me. "I
did Admiral Nechayev doggie-style."
Somehow, this strikes me as hilarious. I giggle,
unable to stop. The man giggles right along with me.
"I tell ya," he chortles. "Me and that stuck-up
blonde bitch goin' at it like a couple of Klingons--It
was the best fun I've had for months. What a great side
effect."
I try to calm down, get my breath, and end up
coughing, instead. It takes me a few minutes to get back
under control. The smell of my own blood and urine
drifting up from the biobed containers doesn't help.
"What--what happened to you?" I splutter.
He grimaces. "I caught a Jem'Hadar disruptor bolt in
the nuts. At least, that's how it felt. It wasn't a
direct shot, though. Lucky me." He grins. "Imagine my
relief when I found myself here, in the middle of a
wetdream with the icebitch goddess of Sector 001. What
about you?"
"Our position was overrun. I blocked a point-blank
shot with my rifle--got hit in the...hand, shoulder and
side, I think. Maybe the face."
"Damn," he says. "You're lucky you're still here.
You're not, um, paralysed, or anything, are you?"
I shake my head, then surreptitiously wriggle my
fingers and toes. Even the drug can't subdue my relief at
being able to do that.
The conversation fades out after that. My neighbor's
condition isn't as good as his big smile indicates, I
think. It's hard to tell. I can't concentrate with so
many drugs in my system. While I'm grateful that there's
no pain, I can't carry on any kind of complicated
conversation. I drift off again.
*********
I don't know what ominous sound rouses me. I've
always had the knack of waking from a sound sleep within
seconds, under normal circumstances, but now.... All I
know is that I wake up sensing that something is wrong. I
struggle to surface, opening my eyes with an effort.
My neighbor lies very still--eyes closed, face grey.
I can't tell if he's breathing. The beeping of the
monitor over his head is slowing, and the lights of his
diagnostic shell have all turned red. Despite the
chemical peace in my veins, a chill shoots through me. I
try to lift my head, but I'm too weak.
Help. I have to get help. I can't do anything on my
own.
"Nurse," I whisper, then clear my throat and try
again, louder. "Nurse. Nurse!"
Nobody comes. They can't hear me. Of course they
can't. Sickbay is full of the sounds of the wounded. How
could the medical staff tell one more urgent moan over
another?
Somehow, I have to attract their attention. I try to
sit up, but the IV is in the way. I tug at it
impatiently. It crashes to the floor. Alerted by the
sound, a nurse (not Sawalha) rushes over.
"Please," I say, looking at my neighbor. "He's
sick...."
"Shit!" the nurse yells. "I need a code team over
here stat!" Medical staff swarm over my neighbor. I've
fixed the problem. I've saved my neighbor. I should feel
great, but instead, I feel dizzy and nauseous. And it's
getting worse.
Ezri sings in my ear:
"And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going
to fall,
"Tell them a hookah-smoking caterpillar has given you the
call.
"Call Alice, when she was just small."
"Oh...God," I say, as black stars crowd my vision.
"I don't feel well." My mouth feels like it's been plated
with tritanium. One of the nurses looms over me, her face
green and distorted, as though I'm looking up at her
through deep water.
"Get another team," I hear her say from a distance.
"This one's crashing, too."
"There is no other team," another nurse answers her.
I see Jadzia. She's in full Klingon armor, so I
suppose we got her into Sto'vo'kor, after all. Worf will
be so pleased. If Ezri won't help me, surely Jadzia will.
She's only been dead a few months, but it feels like
forever. I'm so happy to see her that I start to cry
again. I've missed her so much. The medical team ignores
her as she draws near me and takes my hand. Her hands are
cold as the dead. She frowns at me. Have I made her
angry? I hope she doesn't still blame me for letting her
die.
"Jadzia," I say. "Have you come to take me away?"
She leans close to me. "Julian, listen to me," she
says urgently. "Keep breathing, no matter what. Just
keep breathing."
"Keep...breathing. Right." I'm so tired that I'm not
sure I can obey her.
"Yes, that's right, Julian. Just keep breathing.
Please." She grips my hands tightly; I can't move. She's
crying, too, now, like me. I don't want to make her cry,
so I struggle to take one rattling breath. Then, another,
and another, even as I feel my heartbeat slow and falter.
Mum, sing me that lullaby again. I swear I'll be
good. Don't leave me here in the dark with these heathen.
I don't want to die alone.
*********
"When the men on the chessboard get up and tell you where
to go,
"And you will just have some kind of mushroom,
"And your mind is moving, ohhh,
"Go ask Alice. I think she'll know."
I'm in Hell, and it looks like Wonderland. I wish
the Red Queen would stop singing. She merrily orders her
card-thin soldiers to hoist me onto their shoulders and
carry me to the Mad Hatter's table. His friend, the March
Hare, carves me into little pieces. They soak the slivers
in their teacups, slurping them down. A drunken little
Dormouse bangs on my skull with a spoon. Everyone joins
in on the song.
"When Logic and Proportion have fallen sloppy dead,
"And the White Knight is talking backwards,
"And the Red Queen's off her head,
"Remember what the Dormouse said:
"'Feeeed your head. Feeeed your heaaaad.'"
It's very uncomfortable, being dipped head first
into a teacup. I don't like it. The tea is too hot and
strong. I try to push the Dormouse away, but they've tied
my hands to the bed. Why are they tormenting me? What did
I ever do to them?
"Julian?" the Mock Turtle says solemnly. "Julian,
can you hear me?"
"Ssstop," I whimper. "Stop singing. Please."
The Mock Turtle turns to the Mad Hatter, as the
singing finally dies away, and says, "Well, at least he
responded this time."
"Not that it made any sense," snorts the Hatter.
"He's still completely off his head."
"Shh. He can hear you," the Mock Turtle intones.
"Julian," he says to me. "It's gonna be okay. I know
you're not feeling very well right now, but we've given
you something to help you feel better soon."
Not more tea. Anything but that.
"Tea?!" says the Hatter.
"Nono," the Mock Turtle says soothingly. "Nothing
like that. Just relax. Try to sleep, now. You'll feel
much better in a little while."
I'll feel even better once I stop that bloody
Dormouse from whacking me on the head. I try to grab his
spoon, but my hands are still tied. The Mock Turtle
presses my head gently back against the pillow,
immobilizing me. Am I supposed to just lie here and take
this?
Apparently, I am. The Mock Turtle and the Mad Hatter
walk away, leaving me at the mercy of their soused
comrade. Eventually, the tea that the Mock Turtle has
forced on me takes effect, dulling the Dormouse's
enthusiastic banging. I fall asleep.
*********
"Tell me about the Dormouse, Julian."
The Mock Turtle, so blurry I can barely make him
out, looms over me. "Julian, can you hear me?" he says.
"What?" I squint up at him. The Dormouse and his
spoon have buggered up my vision. Slowly, the Mock Turtle
turns into Nurse Sawalha.
"The Dormouse," he repeats patiently. "Tell me what
it's doing and I'll make it stop."
"Sawa--Alex?" Even I can see the relief on his face.
"So, you're back with us, today," he says. "That's
good news. Tell me about the Dormouse."
I hesitate. What if I tell and the little beast
retaliates? But, the Dormouse is too drunk to notice. He
bangs away, cheerfully oblivious to our conversation.
"Come on, Julian," Sawalha coaxes me. "I know it's
been driving you crazy. You've been yelling about it for
days."
I scowl at him. "Then, why didn't you come sooner?"
Sawalha sighs. "Julian, this is the 12th time that
I've asked you about the Dormouse since I came on shift
two hours ago. *Everybody* has been asking you about the
Dormouse. Believe me, when a patient spends two days
screaming, 'Make this bloody Dormouse stop or I'll rip
his little head off!' at periodic intervals, we do make
an effort to get to the root of the problem."
"Two...days?" I whisper, stunned.
Sawalha nods. "Yep. Now, tell me about the
Dormouse."
"I...he keeps banging on my head--with a spoon."
"I see. So, you've got a headache? That's
understandable. Do you need more medication?"
I shake my head. The Dormouse continues, unfazed.
"Doesn't hurt," I say. "Just...I can't stop him doing
it."
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that." Sawalha looks
genuinely sympathetic. "We had to restrain you after all.
You kept moving around; that wasn't healthy for you.
Where's the Dormouse?"
I turn my head a little. "My head. Left side."
"Does it hurt?" he says.
I shake my head. "A bit itchy, though."
"Okay, that's good." Sawalha strikes out above my
head, knocking the Dormouse off my pillow. The little
beast disappears for good with an outraged squeak.
"How's that?" Sawalha says.
"Perfect," I smile in relief. My head's so much
clearer, now. "Got him the first time. Cheers." Now, if
only these bloody restraints didn't chafe so much....
"Great. I'll be back in a little while to check on
you, then."
"But--you're leaving? What if he comes back?" How
did I perfect this colossal whine in my sleep? Somebody
tell me how to get rid of it and get my old personality
back. I don't like this one.
Sawalha looks annoyed, but smooths it over quickly.
"I'll be right back," he says. He disappears down the row
of beds before I can protest. Brilliant. Now, I'm stuck
here, staring at the ceiling until he comes back.
I glance over at my neighbor with the secret thing
for Admiral Nechayev. He's gone. In his place lies a
Tellarite, who stares blankly at the ceiling. He's not
wearing a diagnostics shell. I glance down at my own
shell. I have a sick feeling that this is the only one in
Sickbay. This must be a smaller ship than I thought.
Nobody needs to tell me that the other bloke is now
in the morgue. He wasn't getting any better, the last I
saw of him, and it's finally dawning on me that this
biobed is my own last stop before a quantum torpedo
coffin. If I survive this, it can only get better. If I
die, I suppose the Tellarite gets my diagnostics shell.
Waste not, want not.
"Hullo," I say tentatively. The Tellarite does not
respond. I wonder if he ever will, or if this is his last
stop, too.
"Sir?" The voice sounds familiar, but the
uncertainty in it does not. I turn my head.
"Nog." I blink at him, feeling stupid. I've been
asking about him for what seems like weeks, at this
point. Seeing him sitting there beside me in his
wheelchair is such an anticlimax.
"How are you?" I say.
"Fine," he replies. "They're going to set me up with
a cybernetic leg once we arrive at Starbase 371. They say
I'll be as good as new, then."
That's good. He looks half-dead right now.
A funny look comes over his face. "Well, at least
you're honest about it," he says.
I stare blankly at him.
"About what?" I say.
"Everybody else keeps saying how much better I look,
how I'm recovering really, really well. You're the first
one to notice how I *really* feel."
Agh. I've gone and done it again. Damn these drugs.
It's worse than trying to hold a conversation with
Lwaxana Troi, the universe's nosiest telepath.
"Nog," I say, slowly and carefully. "Do me a
favour."
"Yes?" Where did he get that bruised, pathetically
eager look? It's heartbreaking.
"Don't pay any attention to what I say for a while."
His hopeful smile wilts. "I mean it, Nog. I'm completely
stoned today. I don't want you to be hurt by anything I
say, all right?"
Nog reaches out and squeezes my arm. "It's okay,
Sir. I know that you'd never do anything to hurt me."
I stare at him. "Nog...in case you haven't noticed,
I'm in restraints."
"That's just to keep you from hurting yourself. The
seizures really scared everybody--especially after that
guy died and you almost went along with him. And then you
were hallucinating so badly.... I'm sure they'll let you
up as soon as your head is a little clearer."
"Seizures?" I feel sick. "When did I have seizures?"
Nog looks anxious, sensing a misstep, no doubt. "A
couple of days ago. You only had two. You look a lot
better now. I'm sure it won't happen again."
Seizures.... What if I've developed epilepsy? What
if they can't control it? What if they won't let me
practice medicine, anymore? God, I'd rather be dead.
Nog's face crumples. Oh, no. Tell me I didn't just
say that out loud.
"Nog." I scramble into the conversational breach.
"It's not the same. Really. Once you get your leg fitted
and finish your initial course of physical therapy, it'll
be as though you never lost it. You'll be fine. You'll
see. It'll all be fine."
"Of course," he says, dully.
I can see that I've jammed my foot firmly down my
throat again. Extracting it will have to wait, though.
Suddenly, I feel so tired. Nog notices and clutches my
arm.
"Sir, are you okay?"
"Fine," I reply brightly. I'm lying. I cannot keep
my eyes open for more than a few seconds. "Just tired," I
insist. "Gonna rest my eyes for a bit." I let my eyes
close. It feels like two pressure doors slamming shut.
*********
After what seems like an eyeblink, I open my eyes
again. Nog is gone. The sickbay lights have dimmed. It's
the night shift. I must have slept for hours. A tricorder
chirps nearby. I turn my head to see Sawalha scanning me.
"What are you doing?" I say groggily.
"Checking your vital signs and downloading the data
from your diagnostics shell," he whispers back.
"You could do that remotely," I point out.
He shrugs. "Well, yeah, I could. I just prefer to do
my visual and tricorder exams at the same time as the
vitals history."
I smile. "You don't trust machines very much, do
you?"
"From what I hear, you don't, either," he grins back.
"How're you feeling?"
"Tired," I admit.
"I'm not surprised. You've had an exciting few
days."
"Yeah." I start to drift off again, but right on the
verge of dreamtime, something he said jolts me awake.
"Hear what?"
Sawalha pauses. "Excuse me?"
"What do you hear about me?" I'm really too tired
to ask this question, but then, maybe Sawalha is tired
enough to answer it.
Sawalha sighs. "Go back to sleep, Julian. You need
it." I want to argue the point, but the truth is, I do
need the sleep. But if he thinks I'm going to let it go
for good, he hasn't learned much about me in the past few
days.
*********
I sleep the rest of the night, and right through the
day shift. When I wake up again, I see Sawalha making
rounds. Glancing over at me, he sees that I'm awake and
smiles. Eventually, he works his way around to me.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, pulling up a chair
next to my biobed.
"Better," I concede.
"That would be the sleep you had today, I think.
Sorry about the noise during the day. We're somewhat over
capacity right now."
I chuckle. "I didn't even notice."
He laughs, too. "So I heard. That's good. That'll
help you heal."
I glance over at the Tellarite, on my other side.
"What about him?"
Sawalha sighs. "I don't know. Physically, he's
stable. Otherwise...we probably would have just let him
go, otherwise."
"I see." So, I am lying next to a turnip. Will he
ever wake up, let alone recover? Does he rate a biobed?
God, what a hellish decision to have to make. I know.
I've had to make it.
"What about the other bloke? The one before him? The
one who crashed right before...." *Before I crashed,* I
can't quite say. "He's dead, isn't he?"
Sawalha nods.
"You had to choose which of us to treat, didn't you?
You let him go to treat me?"
Sawalha's tone is gentle. "I'm afraid so, Julian.
I'm sorry. We just didn't have enough resources to save
you both. If it helps, he probably wasn't going to make
it, anyway." It doesn't help, but I'll bet Sawalha knows
that already.
"Why?" I say. I have to know. "Why me? Why not him?"
"We...." Sawalha pauses, clearly unsure whether it's
safe to continue. "You were in bad shape when you came
here. We really didn't expect you to make it. The odds
were...well, bad. But you fought so hard. You just
refused to give up. It didn't seem fair to give up on
you. So, we kept you hydrated and doped up on painkillers
and antibiotics, and kept treating you for shock until
you pulled out of your nosedive. And here you are."
"Which is where, exactly?"
Sawalha fidgets. Clearly, he doesn't want to have
this conversation with me. "You're not out of the woods,
yet. On the other hand, your chances of a full recovery
are going up every day. If you keep quiet and get your
rest, as you're supposed to, you should be fine."
"I see." It's a vaguer prognosis than I'd like, but
better than I'd feared. I don't know what he means by a
'full recovery'. I'm not sure I want to know yet how long
he expects it to take, either.
I change the subject. "So, what do you hear about
me?"
"What?" he says, looking startled.
"You said last night that you'd heard things about
me. What have you heard?"
Sawalha chews on his lip for a few seconds, then
says thoughtfully, "I'm going to take these restraints
off now, I think. You don't really need them, anymore."
About time! "Your neurological scan is a lot more stable
than it was yesterday, and your fever is down."
I had a fever? Why the hell doesn't anybody *tell*
me anything anymore? "You didn't answer my question."
"You noticed?"
I nod. "You'd be surprised what I notice when I'm
actually approaching a normal state of consciousness."
Sawalha's laugh is short and unexpected. "Well...."
He finishes pulling off my restraints, then sits back
down. "It depends on whom you talk to."
"What do you mean?" Funny, I always thought I got
along well with everybody I met.
"Let's see--the word around Starfleet Medical is
that you're a maverick, a real rebel. That's not what
they say, of course. What they say is that you're a
primadonna and an arrogant pain in the ass. After word
got out that you'd been genetically enhanced, several
people claimed that they'd known it all along. The word
'insubordinate' gets used a lot, too. And you have a
reputation for admiral-baiting. Oh, and I believe there
was also a pool going around a few years back about how
long it would take for you to go AWOL and join the
Maquis."
I wince. This is a bit more truth than I'd
anticipated.
He notices. "You did ask."
"Yeah, yeah. I know. Go on."
He shrugs. "On the other hand, I've also run into a
couple of people who've worked with you in combat
conditions, and they've been trying to get assigned to
either Deep Space Nine, or the Defiant, ever since."
"Really?" I'm touched. I didn't realise that I
inspired such strong reactions in people.
He grins. "Let's just say that you're the kind of
doc that people are happier seeing in a foxhole than
behind a desk."
"To be honest," I admit. "*I'm* happier in the field
than behind a desk. Not in a foxhole, though."
"Nobody is happier in a foxhole, Julian," Sawalha
points out. "Nobody sane, anyway."
I chuckle. "At least you think I'm sane. Not
everyone would agree with you on that."
"You mean, because you volunteered to go to Bajor?
Do you have any idea how many people have wanted to trade
places with you for the past six years? There've been
rumours for years that you had some kind of inside
knowledge about the Wormhole."
I shiver, thinking of what Sloan and his cronies
could have done with that rumour, had they believed it.
Apparently, they hadn't, or I might now be someplace that
makes this biobed look like a vacation spot.
"Believe me, I didn't," I say. "I was just in the
right place at the right time." I think of how many times
I've told Captain Sisko that. We've got that routine down
pat, now. "I just got lucky."
Sawalha smirks at me. "I have a feeling that you're
the type who makes his own luck."
"Maybe. I don't know." Right now, I don't feel so
lucky.
"Julian." Sawalha pauses, as though he's reluctant
to say what's next. "I need to ask you something."
"What?"
"We, um...we're running low on some supplies--
specifically, the medication you're on. We'd like to
switch you to another med until we get to Starbase 371."
"I see. Why is that a problem?"
He shrugs. "It's not, necessarily, a problem at all.
It's just that this one has been working so well that we
wanted to leave you on it. However, if we could safely
switch you over, it would help. You're not the only
patient on it--"
"--But I'll bet I'm the one using most of it,
right?" He looks embarrassed. He really doesn't want to
do this to me. They must be running dry. "If you switch
me over, how much will it help you?"
"Well, we can switch you over, or we can switch over
the other five patients who are on it."
"Oh." *That* bad. "All right. So, do it."
He gives me an odd look. "You're sure?"
"Yes," I reply crossly. "Of course. Absolutely. If
you have an alternative, then use it." Why is this a
dilemma? It makes perfect sense, from a triage
standpoint. Of course, triage is my worst enemy right
now. I am a very bad survival risk. I shiver again.
"Julian." Sawalha puts a hand on my shoulder. "Your
condition is still not very stable. You could have a bad
reaction to this."
I feel a flash of fear--it must be time for my next
shot of whatever. Mentally, I stomp hard on the fear and
look Sawalha in the eye.
"Well," I say. "I've done all right so far, haven't
I? I'll muddle through."
*'Forward, the Light Brigade!' Was there a man
dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew
some one had blunder'd,* Miles' voice whispers in my
head. *Their's not to make reply. Their's not to reason
why. Their's but to do and die. Into the valley of Death
rode the six hundred.* Oh, those brave words that we two
recite before battle. Someone has to keep up appearances.
*Then they rode back, but not...not the six
hundred.*
Shut up, Miles. You're not here. You're my friend.
Why aren't you here?
I finally notice the strange way that Sawalha is
looking at me. How much of my reverie have I just blurted
out?
"Are you okay?" Sawalha asks.
I swallow a bubble of panic. "Of course. Let's just
do it, all right?"
He nods. "We can start now. You're due for your next
shot."
*********
The new stuff they give me leaves me lightheaded and
nauseous, but not as groggy as my usual poison. I'm not
certain that this is a good thing. I rather liked being
semi-conscious. The nurse who relieves Sawalha at
midnight wakes me up every time she comes by to check my
vital signs. It's not her fault. She tries to be quiet,
but the new medication is making me restless.
"How are you feeling, Julian?" she asks me.
"Fine." I reply. She gives me a skeptical look.
"You seem to be having a little trouble sleeping,"
she notes. "How's the new medication working out?"
"Great. Better than the old." I'm lying, of course.
My eyes feel gritty, and my head aches from the lack of
sleep. Still, I'm determined to see this through. I don't
want to suck up five patients' worth of medication. Even
if that were healthy, it wouldn't be fair.
She sighs, sounding a bit exasperated, but leaves to
me to get on with it, anyway. Eventually, I do fall
asleep--to everyone's relief, especially my own.
*********
My legs hurt, as though ghosts have come in the dark
to stick knives in my shins. I try to lie still, but
there's no way to be comfortable. I want my mum.
I'm afraid to call for help. One of the first things
I've learned, since I was much smaller than today, is
that I musn't disturb Daddy's sleep--ever. If I wake him,
he yells and breaks things. Sometimes, he hits me. Only
Daddy gets to be loud; everyone else has to be quiet, and
tiptoe around the house so as not to disturb him.
It's a scary game. I try to cry just loudly enough
for Mummy to hear me, but to not wake Daddy. Fortunately,
Daddy sleeps much more heavily than Mummy.
Mummy tells me that it's just growing pains. "It's
only leg cramps. You'll grow out of it," she tells me,
patting me on the back. I try not to notice how worried
she looks as she has me walk up and down the hallway each
night to ease the pain.
At night, the aliens come to me in my sleep and
stick their needles and probes inside me. They scan me
with machines that hum and click, sometimes making me
feel dizzy. They won't let me sleep. As they poke and
prod me, I feel myself growing larger and taller like
Alice. I sit up in bed suddenly so that my head won't go
through the headboard. But I don't stop growing.
The aliens, mouths hanging open, run around in
consternation as my head breaks through the ceiling, the
attic, the roof. Their piping voices float up to me from
the backyard, where they have escaped to monitor my
progress. I stare around at the quiet neighborhood, now
waking up to my metamorphosis. My parents stand out in
the backyard in their nightclothes. Daddy shakes his fist
up at me and dances in a rage.
"Look what you've done!" he squeaks. "You've grown
too big! Look what you've done to our house, you little
monster!"
The neighbors come running, waving torches. At the
head of the mob, Director Sloan squeaks up at me in
terror and rage, "Burn him! Burn the monster! He's too
big!"
They are going to burn the house down around me. I
stretch out my arms. Each fist goes out a window. I am
trapped. How can I escape them when I'm stuck in a house?
I hear crackling all around me. A searing pain goes up
the side of my neck as the house catches fire.
No. No, please don't burn me. I'm not a monster; I'm
just a little boy. I didn't mean to grow so much. I can't
help it. Please, please don't burn me....
"Shh. Easy does it," a voice from above tells me.
Mummy brushes the hair back from my forehead. Has she
forgiven me for growing so big and wrecking her house?
"Mummy," I whimper, licking my cracked lips. "Mummy,
don't--"
"Shh, Julian. It's all right. I know it hurts. Just
give it another few seconds for the Asperidin to filter
out of your system. Then, we'll put you right back on the
Ilderol."
I blink up at her. Her face is too blurry to make
out, but I know now that she isn't my mother.
"Sss...hurts," I say.
"I know," she says gently. "You had a bad reaction
to the Asperidin. I know you're feeling your burns, but I
had to filter it out before I could switch your
medication. Just hold on."
I reach up and grab her uniform. She squawks in
surprise as I drag her face close to mine. It's Sawalha's
third shift replacement. The burns...this pain is from my
burns? God, I had no idea. No idea.
The nurse grunts as she twists in my grip to grab
something next to the bed. She lifts it into my line of
vision. It's a hypo. It hisses as she presses it against
my throat. My hand loosens, dropping onto the diagnostics
shell. Blessed relief flows through me as the drug takes
it all away--pain, fear, and consciousness.
*********
Somebody is holding my hand. It's nice to know that
somebody cares. I open my eyes, taking my time. It's Nog.
"How do you feel, Sir?" he asks, smiling nervously
at me.
"Ugh," I say. My, I'm articulate, today.
Nog squeezes my hand. "It's okay, Sir. They just had
to give you an extra dose of your old medication. You'll
feel more up to speed tomorrow."
"Hmm." All right, so this isn't my day for deep
thoughts. I look Nog over. "You okay?"
"Fine," he says. He has a rotten poker face. He
doesn't look at all 'okay', nor 'fine', for that matter.
"Not okay," I say, with drunken conviction. "Not
fine."
Nog shrugs, his face closed and wary. "Don't worry
about me, Sir. I'll be okay, soon."
My gaze drifts past Nog to the window. What is a
window doing there? Am I still asleep or have the dueling
meds finally driven me mad?
"No, sir. We're on Starbase 371." *Again*, with the
one-way telepathy. *Damn* these drugs.
Then, I remember. "Alex? The ship--are they still
here? Alex?" My voice rising in panic, I try to sit up.
Oh, my God, is that a mistake. Black sparks swarm in from
the edges of my vision, and the entire room rotates
sideways. Nog doesn't have to push me back down onto the
bed, even if he could. I fall back quickly, before I
throw up.
Nog is talking to me. I really should pay more
attention to what he's saying. He's answering my
question. What *was* my question?
"What?" I say, too loudly.
"Sir, the ship left last night."
I blink at him. "They left? Just like that?"
Nog nods. "They beamed us all over and left. They
needed to get back to the front."
"But...Alex." I feel overwhelmed. I've been
depending on Sawalha for days. It never occurred to me--I
thought I'd at least get a chance to say goodbye, to
thank him.
This is a lesson for me. Don't rely on any more
people. Don't become dependent. The people around me will
come and go. Don't let it touch me. Why is it so hard for
me to learn that?
Nog pats my hand. "I'm sorry, Sir. I guess they
thought it would be better for you if you slept through
the transfer."
"Huh. Did *you* sleep through it?"
Nog's face drains of all expression. "More or less,"
he says. In other words, 'no'.
"Did it hurt?" I ask.
"Not really," he replies hesitantly. "It was just a
little scary. They were in a really big hurry. I guess
they could have been gentler."
Nog seems to be guessing about many painful events
in his life today. "I'm sorry, Nog," I say, as gently as
I can. I pat him clumsily on the shoulder.
He smiles. "Thanks, Sir. At least they put us
together in the same room. I think they were annoyed at
me for asking. But I just kept pointing out that having
somebody you knew watching out for you might help them
out."
I laugh out loud, paying for it with a coughing fit.
"Nog," I say, when I get my breath again. "I like your
style."
Nog grins nervously at the compliment, but still
looks concerned. "Sir, are you sure you're all right?"
"Absolutely," I reassure him. Less than five minutes
later, I'm back in my now standard state of
consciousness: drug induced coma.
*********
My first week at Starbase 371 more or less escapes
me. I sleep most of the time--first because of the drugs,
and later, simply because I'm so tired. Healing is
exhausting, and I've got a lot of it to do. So does Nog.
As the week progresses, I stay awake longer and more
often. I begin to notice Nog becoming more miserable. Or
is it that I'm noticing everything more? The surgeon
comes and tells Nog that there are complications with his
stump. Nog's got some infection that is causing edema in
his leg. The infection is interfering with his immune
system. If they can't get it under control, they might
have to amputate more of his leg. Then, he wouldn't be
eligible to get that cybernetic limb. They'd probably
give him a medical discharge. At best, he'd get a desk
job. At worst, he'd be out of Starfleet. Nobody has any
such discussion with me. The assumption seems to be that
if I don't die, then I will go back on duty at some
point. What does not kill a genetically enhanced Human
makes him stronger, I suppose.
I try to stay positive for Nog, but inside, I worry.
The more my head clears, the more I second-guess. Did I
amputate too much? Should I have amputated more? Should I
have used a pain killer with anti-inflammatory
properties? I'd avoided that for fear that it would start
the leg bleeding again. Perhaps I shouldn't have done
that. Perhaps I should have worried more about keeping
the leg viable. Should I have left Nog to go hold the
line with a phaser rifle? No...I know the answer to that
one, already. That one couldn't be helped. I turn it over
and over in my head, even though I know better. I cannot
change the past, no matter how many mistakes I've made.
But, I continue to gnaw on it, unable to stop myself,
unable to ease Nog's misery.
**********
Six days after our arrival, the Hermat evening shift
nurse, who comes in to give us our medication every
night, tells us some news.
"You guys are lucky bastards," s/he says as s/he
gives me my shot. I hate this new stuff that they're
giving me. I get my shot and five minutes later, it's
good night, Julian. It also makes me feel very calm,
which doesn't surprise me. My nervous system can't heal
if I'm not calm. To be honest, I'd be a screaming wreck
without the drugs.
"What do you mean?" Nog says. The tension in his
voice means that he's feeling his leg. He's supposed to
go in for preliminary surgery tomorrow, so they can match
his nervous system up with his new leg. He's been
irritable all day.
"You two came in with the Veracruz on its last run,
didn't you?" the nurse says. "It disappeared with all
hands two days ago while evacuating a frontline hospital
in the Cerus system. They think a Jem'Hadar patrol got
it. You didn't hear?" S/he moves over to Nog, who has
turned pale, and gives him his shot.
"No," I say heavily. "We didn't. Nobody tells us
anything, here."
The Hermat glances up at me--alerted, perhaps, by my
tone. "I just thought you'd want to know," s/he says, in
a neutral voice.
"Bully for you." The Hermat opens hir mouth, then
seems to think better of it. Shaking hir head, s/he picks
up hir tray and leaves.
"Nog," I say, as the door swishes shut, but he just
turns his face to the wall.
*********
"So, they collected the wounded, the crippled, the maimed
And shipped us back home to Australia.
The legless, the armless, the blind, the insane,
The proud, wounded heroes of Souvla."
The song sounds familiar, but I can't place it.
Would Miles know? They play it with a big, brass band as
Nog and I stumble down the Promenade. Nog is on crutches.
I lean on him, unable to stop twitching. Up ahead, I see
Captain Sisko and the rest of the Senior Staff waiting
for us. I hope that they'll wait long enough for us to
get there.
"But the band played Waltzing Matilda,
As they carried us down the gangway.
But nobody cheered, they just stood there and stared.
Then, they turned all their faces away."
As we approach the Senior Staff, I see that they are
all gathered round a shrouded gurney. They, and the crowd
lining the upper level of the Promenade, smile and clap,
cheering us on. When we arrive at the gurney, Captain
Sisko raises his hand and everyone falls silent.
"Julian, Nog, we are very proud of what you have
done," he says, all of his Emissary oratory on display.
"Putting your lives, your bodies, your very sanity on the
line for the good of Starfleet and the Federation is well
above and beyond the call of duty." Yeah, yeah. Get on
with it, whatever it is. "Today we would like to show you
what your bravery and sacrifice have bought you." With
that, he pulls back the shroud. Underneath it is a body.
It is Sawalha.
And, oh God, his guts, blown out of his abdominal
cavity and flash-frozen, are just beginning to thaw. And,
oh God, oh dear God, no. His face---
*********
I snap awake, as though I had been turned on by a
switch. Nog is crying. I'm not sure which bothers me
more, that last image or Nog's quiet sobs into his
pillow. I cannot sleep, not after that dream.
"Nog," I whisper. He doesn't answer. "Computer, what
time is it?"
"The time is 0200 hours," the voice in the air
intones.
"*Nog*," I try again, more insistent this time. The
sobs pause for a moment, then start up again. Still not
an answer in my book. "Dammit, Nog. *Talk* to me."
"I'm all right," he whimpers back, sounding stuffed
up.
"No, you're not. What's wrong. Does your leg hurt?"
He is silent for a long, long time. Finally, he
says, "He was a good officer." This is a mighty accolade
from Nog. "He deserved better."
"Who?" I say, though I know whom he means.
"You know."
"Sawalha." I can't say his first name. It sounds too
much like throwing dirt onto a coffin. That dream...I
won't forget his face very soon.
"He deserved better," Nog says firmly. "He was nice
to me, and he was honest with me. *Nobody* else was nice
to me." So, Sawalha did take care of Nog, after all, just
as he'd promised. That only makes it hurt worse.
"It's a war, Nog. We all deserve better." Since when
did I become so bitter? This wasn't the personality
change that I had in mind.
"It's still not fair," Nog insists. Well, he is
young. I used to think like him. When did I lose my
innocence? Garak would be so proud of me, even if we
hardly talk anymore.
"No, Nog. It's not fair," I say, "But it is done.
And he could still be alive, you know. He could be stuck
on some planet the way we were last year, remember? We
have to hope for the best." Even if I don't believe in
the best anymore.
He sighs. "Yeah. I suppose." I can just see his head
turn as he looks at me in the gloom. "Sir?"
"Nog, we're both patients right now," I say,
exasperated. "Call me 'Julian'."
He ignores the offer. "Sir, can you promise me
something?"
"It depends. What is it?"
"Can you promise me...." he stops, his voice
breaking. "Can you promise me that you won't leave, too?
That you'll at least say goodbye, first?"
Don't *leave*? 'Don't die on me. Don't get
transferred. Don't get discharged and go back to the
station without me.' That's what he really means. I can't
promise that. There is no way that I can promise it,
anymore than Sawalha could. Surely, he knows that?
"Don't worry, Nog," I assure him. "I'll be here when
you get back from surgery."
He doesn't answer. I hear him shift about,
scratching at his leg. God, I have got to get him to stop
that. He's beginning to drive me mad.
"Nog?" I say. "What's wrong? Tell me. Does your leg
hurt?"
I try to wait patiently for him to answer. It's
difficult. Finally, he says, "It itches."
I'm puzzled. "What? Your stump?"
"No," he insists. "My foot. I know it's not supposed
to be there anymore--but it still itches."
"Oh." I consider this for moment. "Wait. I'll...do
something about that." Taking a deep breath, I turn and
slide over the side of my bed. I try to do it gently, but
I can't hold on. I land with a thump on the floor,
jarring my shoulder.
For a few seconds, I lie there, breathless. When, my
hearing comes back, I hear Nog calling my name.
"Relax, Ensign," I reassure him. "I'm fine. I just
fell a little hard." It takes me longer than I'd hoped to
get my breath back, though, and now my whole upper body
is really starting to ache. But I'm nothing if not
persistent. I roll over onto my stomach (one of my better
ideas, recently) and crawl over to Nog's bed. I stare
up...and up. I feel as though I'm looking up a volcano
face on Mars. How am I going pull *this* off?
"Oh. Ow," I say. "Nog. Help me out, here."
"Sir? What're you doing?!" I hear Nog groan as he
turns over. A hand waves the air above my head. I reach
up and flail around until I connect with Nog's arm. I
pull myself up his arm, as though I'm crawling up a rope
on a cliff face. Nog grunts from the strain, but doesn't
let go. He even reaches over with the other hand and
tries to pull harder on my arm.
I don't even want to think about what the night
staff would do if they walked in right at this moment.
They are not the most understanding of medics. In point
of fact, we annoy them, Nog and I. Tough. It takes time,
and too much agony, to get up and over the side of the
bed, but we pull it off eventually, Nog and I. Once
there, I grey out for a bit. When I come to, Nog is
nudging me with his good leg.
"Sir?" he says. "Sir, are you okay?"
"Fine," I say. I reach out for his good foot, then
pull it onto my chest. Ferengi feet smell like red wine.
I decide not to point this out to Nog. "Tell me where it
itches," I say.
"It's the other foot," he says. He means the stump.
I don't point this out. Fortunately, now that I am on
fewer drugs, I don't blurt all of my thoughts unawares. I
reach down for the other leg, and begin to scratch
randomly.
"Not like that," Nog says. "Down a bit...no,
over...no, more...Yeah! Right there. Just stay right
there."
I am in bed with a young Ferengi Starfleet ensign,
scratching his non-existent foot. Since I'm so much
taller than he is, my feet are propped up on his
diagnostic bedboard, which beeps in protest whenever I
shift position. Thank God it is two am. A laugh wells up
from deep in my belly and bursts out unexpectedly.
"What?" Nog demands, sounding distressed.
"Nothing," I reply hastily.
"No, really. What? What's wrong?"
"Nog," I say. "Just--look down."
In the dark, I can just see the pale oval of his
face as he lifts his head and looks down the bed at me.
"Oh. My. God," he says faintly. Then, he bursts out
laughing. I laugh, too.
"We look like complete idiots!" he exclaims.
"I know!" I crow back. As we both calm down a bit, I
ask, "How does your leg feel now?"
"Better." He sounds astonished, as though I've
worked some sort of miracle. "Can you, um...Can you stay
like that for awhile?"
I snort in bitter amusement. "Nog, I hate to break
this to you, but you're stuck with me for the duration,
unless somebody comes in and finds us. I don't have the
strength to get out of this bed, let alone get back into
mine."
"Ah," he says. Then, after a pause. "Well, in that
case...how about a little more over to the left?"
END